


Portraits of Lost Time

by calibratingentropy



Series: The Transmutation of Takashi Shirogane [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adoption Via Alien Rituals, Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alternate Universe, Galra Shiro (to be), Implied Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lactation, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Nursing, Other, POV Original Character, Pre-Relationship, Quad-sexed Ovoviviparous Marsupial Galra, Sexual Objectification (Of Shiro by Galra Commanders), Slavery, Ulaz Is Being Reckless Again, coerced sex, forced transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calibratingentropy/pseuds/calibratingentropy
Summary: Haggar has implemented a new plan to "improve" Shiro and make him an even more effective weapon for the Galra Empire. As impressive as he is, he would be even more perfect as a Galra so she's embarked on experiments to make him so. Shiro might not remember these moments after his escape, but others do.A collection of snapshots set during Shiro's captivity, after experiments begin to transform him into one of the Galra, mostly from the points of view of others around him. A prequel of sorts to Metamorphosis (which is still in the planning stages).





	Portraits of Lost Time

**Author's Note:**

> More Quad-Sexed-Ovoviviparous Galra AUs for folks! So I've been planning a fic where Shiro is transformed into a Galra and has to deal with it for a while, and this little prequel came out of nowhere and demanded I pay attention to it. It'll be updated sporadically as new moments that Shiro (probably thankfully) won't remember start begging to be written. 
> 
> Because I'm That Nerd, each chapter will be named for an artwork, or a series of artworks on a similar theme! This chapter is named for the theme in religious art of the Virgin Mary nursing baby Jesus, which is often a subset of the Madonna of Humility artworks. 
> 
> Fast facts:  
> \--Galra DNA does have similarity to viruses, but usually an adult's immune system will prevent any... alterations when somebody comes into contact with the DNA (say, through sex or other fluids). Of course, when one wipes out the immune system first, and combines large doses of Galra DNA with drug cocktails and quintessence, well, anything can happen.   
> \--Carriers used to be near venerated by Galra, and if a non-Galra proved themselves worthy, a carrier would be induced to lactate and give a gift of their milk to that person, symbolically making them Galra (and also officially adopting them by ancient Galra law).   
> \--In Zarkon's current Empire, carriers are treated like shit, and the old rituals all but forgotten. On the other hand, Zarkon and Haggar are both old enough to remember those ancient rituals (even if Haggar doesn't personally remember going through it while she was Honerva) and willing to make use of them for their own ends.

Champion was asleep, curled in weary defensiveness on himself as much as the space of her lap allowed, and fingers wound tight and clinging at her pouch fur. For all that fitful dreams tried to intrude, his face was soft and slack with it, and Zaivar suspected this was the deepest he’d managed to sleep in some time. 

She could feel judgmental eyes on her; it made part of her itch to retrieve her uniform and mask and to rise off the floor and dress, but the stronger urge was to groom and warble comfort. Champion was hers now, in all the ways that mattered, and there wouldn’t be backlash. Officially, at least. The Champion had proven himself worthy, Galra in mind and soul, and was being rewarded. (It was the next stage in the Witch’s plan to make a weapon out of him.) The Emperor himself had even approved of reviving the ages old practice of a gift and acceptance of milk to seal an adoption into the ranks of Galra.

Adoption. It made Zaivar want to scoff. This was nothing less than a forced transformation from the DNA up. The Witch’s doing, all of it. She’d strapped Champion down and flooded his system with drugs to wipe out his body’s defenses. Now Galra blood and quintessence were being pumped into his largest veins, and soon, surgeries would begin, to replace organs and flesh with Galra versions, specially grown in cloning vats. It would save Champion the slow agony as his body turned itself inside out and starved to try to change his existing organs to match his new DNA, at least, but it was a small comfort at best. 

Even her own milk was doing insidious work, and settling in his depleted marrow to construct a new immune system. It was touted as a great honor, a gift, an _upgrade_ , but Zaivar would give up the command she’d fought and suffered and slaved for if Champion agreed on that count. 

Still, as his pouch-mother officially, and soon to be literally, Zaivar couldn’t stand aside and abandon Champion. So she was forced to watch, and even assist. It was too late to stop it now, but she could ease things along, and once he was mostly Galra, surely his treatment would improve to match. (Ha! As if being Galra alone was enough to earn rights and respect.) 

The thoughts, probably bordering on treason, sent a tremor that itched and stung down her spine, a sudden certainty of being watched and found wanting. Zaivar refused to look in the Witch’s direction as she prepared the next transfusion at the other end of the lab, and tipped her chin up defiantly at the medical technicians. She’d deal with _them_ later; they were hers to command, after all. 

But fabric settled on her shoulders and she glanced over to find one of the senior technicians, Ulaz was his name, wrapping a sheet pilfered from somewhere around her. His expression was as neutral as it always was under his medic’s mask, but his scent was uncharacteristically soft. 

“I thought you might want an illusion of privacy, Commander.” 

Privacy? Hardly. But… It shielded Champion from the stares of the others, and gave her free reign to trail her claws through his mane to groom without being called on it. The gesture was appreciated, if confusing, and Zaivar let her scent go questioning. 

Ulaz didn’t speak, and neither did his scent change, but he settled beside her on the floor, ostensibly to check on the lines of fluids and quintessence feeding into Champion’s throat and chest. Then under the cover of the sheet, his fingers trailed alongside hers through Champion’s mane. _Oh._ Well then. “Did you suggest this, Technician Ulaz?”

No change in scent or expression, but Ulaz’s throat worked twice before the words came out, too soft to be overheard. “I argued against it. This won’t strengthen Shiro. At best it will undermine the fortitude and will that have so… _captivated_ the ones who want this.”

Ulaz’s words betrayed him. First what was surely a name escaped, and then his tone twisted in disgust on the word that was far too polite for what it really meant. But was it a slip, or intentional? 

Zaivar let her condemnation thread into her scent. She had better control over her scent than most and used it to her advantage. “Say what you mean, Technician. The Commanders have been bragging about how they would conquer and breed Champion if they could for phoebs. Now they will have the chance, and without the shame of a reputation for lusting after lesser species. Disgusting.” 

And if she meant the part where other species were considered ‘less’ as much as she meant the Commanders’ lust, no one but herself ever had to know. Ulaz’s gaze pierced right through her, as if he _did_ know, in spite of her care and skill in pushing aside her own feelings to pursue a career in the military. Hell, but better than life in the creches. 

“There will be whispers.” Ulaz’s tone was casual, but the words were not. “There will be those who seek to challenge your position, claiming that offering yourself instead of using a teat-pump is a sign of carrier sentimentality and weakness.” 

“Are _you_ challenging me, Technician?” Zaivar bared her teeth. If he was, she’d drag his challenge into a public arena and beat him down. It would serve the little switch right for underestimating just how powerful a carrier’s solid build really was. 

And he was _amused_ , the little brat. Ulaz pulled off his mask, and his expression was hardly different, but his scent reeked with humor. “I was offering support. The Medical Corps couldn’t do better for a Commander than yourself, but much worse would be easier to manage.” 

What was he scheming? Zaivar made a thoughtful noise in her chest. “And what will you expect in return for that support?” 

Ulaz took a breath instead of speaking right away. Zaivar got the impression that he was steeling himself, but for what? His voice was perfectly steady when he began. “Appoint me Shiro’s primary. The Witch has denied him medical care for no reason before. Now that he’ll become Galra, there’s even less excuse.” 

There was that soft edge to Ulaz’s scent again, seeming like it had broken free of control. Zaivar would be a fool to assume she was the only one who’d learned to control her scent. Ulaz was one of her best, well-versed in a variety of sub-disciplines and a lauded prosthetist. He’d been assigned the task of adjusting Champion’s (Shiro’s, even) prosthetic to his nervous system and succeeded even beyond anyone’s, even the Witch’s, expectations. He was valuable enough to the Corps that when she’d gotten an order for censure for inappropriate behavior on her desk only movements before that success, she’d ignored it and been duly proven right to do so. “You’ve defied the Witch before where… Shiro is concerned.” 

Ulaz blanched at her challenge but didn’t look away. “Not defied. She only specified that he must heal naturally. No one can claim my method wasn’t natural.” 

That more than explained the soft edge in Ulaz’s scent. Had he thought that he could avoid the instincts aroused by such acts? Zaivar raised an eyebrow. “How long have you been kissing him?” 

“How long do you plan on nursing him?” 

Zaivar huffed a laugh. Fair riposte. Fair question too. “As long as he needs. Fine; I’ll appoint you, but don’t expect me to step in if the Witch overrules me.” 

Ulaz just nodded once and moved to the line. The blood transfusion was finished, and he took care with antiseptic and capping that almost surprised Zaivar. Most medics assigned to the arena and slave-camps didn’t bother. Even for a species as novel as Ch—Shiro’s, it would only be a matter of time before a regular supply was established. Why worry about infection when there were always more? Wasteful, in Zaivar’s opin—

The tightening of fingers against her fur made her gasp. Shiro shifted closer, moaning softly in disoriented pain. Zaivar took a moment to glance at Ulaz. “You’ve woken him.” 

Ulaz’s scent went openly apologetic as he stood. “I need to get the next infusion.” 

Shiro (and that name did have an almost pleasant sound to it, as round and soft as it was) shivered and levered himself up. Zaivar felt a tiny pang of loss at the breaking of the contact, but her attention was on her new child. He had a hand to his mouth, and a twinge of fear in his scent and tightening the skin around his eyes. “It wasn’t a dream? I really…”

He seemed embarrassed; Zaivar refused to be embarrassed with him. Uncommon perhaps, but inducing milk for an adult but seriously ill or injured child was an ancient carrier tradition. The drugs, transfusions and upcoming surgeries weren’t that, exactly, but close enough. “I offered it freely and I’m glad you accepted. You’re experiencing severe malnutrition.”

His dark eyes (would they stay that way?) narrowed and muscles tensed. “I wonder why.” 

It made Zaivar smile. If she had to have a child (so wanted, but could’t dare risking her position), this was a good choice. “Such bite. Keep that spirit, Shiro. You’ll need it to make it through this.” 

Zaivar didn’t know Earthlings well enough to pick up the nuances in their scent shifts, but the sourness in Shiro’s spoke of fear. He swallowed, swallowed again, and quivered. “How do you know— Nevermind. It’s… but it’s not possible. You can’t change DNA. It can’t be real?” 

“With quintessence and new science, many things that shouldn’t be have become possible.” Ulaz knelt next to them, and his scent went regretful as Shiro flinched. It didn’t stop him from attaching the new infusion.

“We can’t stop it, but we can make sure you survive it.” Zaivar didn’t even regret the we, not for herself, or for including Ulaz in it. He might be even better at controlling his scent than she was, but it was becoming more and more obvious that he cared and deeply. She wouldn’t be surprised if he started courting Shiro the moment it wouldn’t ruin his career to do so, but the thought of what that would mean for Shiro… The rotten behemoth the Empire had become wasn’t kind, wasn’t _good_ , and the Emperor himself was so far corrupted that he should have been censured long ago. Shiro was so different, and conforming might well break his spirit. The thought was sadder than it should have been. 

Shiro put his hands to his face, flinched away from the prosthetic, and then took a shaky breath. The fear scent thickened, with something that panged uncomfortably close to nausea. Could Zaivar blame him? His own species was being torn from him. There was nothing she could say to comfort, not with this. But to her surprise, his shoulders squared, and even if he was breathing unevenly, Shiro looked up, something bright and hard in his expression. “I will survive. No matter what. I can’t let this beat me.” 

“Victory or death,” Ulaz said heavily, echoing Zaivar’s thoughts. 

Shiro shook his head. “That’s not— _I’m_ not—“ 

The denial was weak, and his voice trembled; he was nearly overwhelmed. Zaivar wanted to gather him close, but there were too many eyes on them. Instead she gritted her teeth and adjusted the sheet. “Focus on that survival; push the rest aside for now. And drink, because you’ll need the calories.” 

Shiro made a face, blood rushing to his skin to tint it red. Ulaz pressed hypo against Shiro’s bared skin with a soft warning that he was administering painkillers, and then used the withdrawal of his hand to subtly push Shiro closer. “They won’t allot you more than slave’s rations, and you won’t find better nutrition anywhere in the galaxies.” 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this…” But Shiro licked his lips, and his expression simmered with hunger. “This is so weird.” 

With that he leaned in, sheet falling back around him. Zaivar pulled down the rim of her pouch almost without thinking. Damp brushed against one of her teats, in a tentative suckle. She felt the moment the raw hunger of being kept on the edge of starvation so long overcame Shiro’s reluctance, and couldn’t hold back a sigh. 

When she risked trailing her hand over Shiro’s head and down his back, he arched into it, and then clung tighter. Touch-starved too, no doubts about it. Emotion burned, threatening her control. 

_Mine. My child._

From the warmth in her skin, and the growl only barely held to whisper levels in her syrinx, Zaivar could guess that everyone had smelt the surge of protective anger sweeping past her control. She wanted to laugh and shake her head at herself. “This is going to ruin our careers.” 

With the scent of someone doing something reckless and fully aware of it, Ulaz shot a smile that was more of a grimace back at her. “We won’t regret it.” 

He was right. Even if everything in her head screamed at her that she would, Zaivar couldn’t imagine regretting this.


End file.
